


it was a bad idea (calling you up)

by flustraaa



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Criminal Minds RPF
Genre: (only lowkey tho), Angry Spencer Reid, Angst, Angst/Fluff, Crying Spencer Reid, Depressed Spencer Reid, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s08e12 Zugzwang, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Heartbroken Spencer Reid, Hurt Spencer Reid, I had to bring Sylvia Plath into this im sorry, Introspection, Post-Episode: s08e12 Zugzwang, Sad Spencer Reid, Sleepy Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid Angst, Spencer Reid Character Study, Spencer Reid Fluff, Spencer Reid Whump, Spencer Reid-centric, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24551065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flustraaa/pseuds/flustraaa
Summary: “i never used to believe in god, not even after what i saw when i died in that shed, but now i’m starting to see religion everywhere.”“people cycling through the stages of grief tend to find solace in religion, it’s natural—““no,” Spencer states simply, as if it were obvious, “that’s just it. the seven archangels, there’s seven of us, there’s seven stages of grief— there’s seven letters in my first name morgan. i’ve come to learn that art imitates life, but it’s taken me longer to learn that life is full of art. illusions, foreshadows... you name it. art imitates life, that’s why everything is so goddamn tragic— it’s what makes it beautiful.”
Relationships: Maeve Donovan & Spencer Reid, Maeve Donovan/Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid & Alex Blake, Spencer Reid & David Rossi, Spencer Reid & Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid & Jennifer “JJ” Jareau, Spencer Reid & Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid & Penelope Garcia, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team, Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 122





	1. shock

**Author's Note:**

> “The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.” 
> 
> -sylvia plath, the bell jar.

He does not feel the cement beneath his knees, nor does he feel the warmth of his own blood trickling down his arm. The sticky crimson cools in a way so similarly to the beating of his heart that he cannot help but believe that even Arthur Conan Doyle himself would be _disgusted_ by the literary cliché— he and Maeve would talk about the idiocy of a literary cliché like _that_. 

He does not feel it when JJ and Morgan pull him up, and for someone who can remember every word of every conversation he’d ever shared with Maeve, he can’t seem to remember _how_ he got from the floor to the ambulance. 

Maybe he never moved at all, he thinks distantly, maybe he’s dreaming and maybe Maeve is alive and he’s prone, covered in his duvets, arms wrapped around the planetary pillowcase that he’s had since his fourth birthday. 

That has to be it— after everything he’s gone through, no God would be so _cruel_ as to take away the only things that’s been giving him hope for one hundred and a half days. 

And when he finally woke up, he would talk to Maeve about his dream in itself was a terrible cliché— the remedial, ‘ _and then I woke up_ ’. 

_Yes_ , he would wake up with golden sun trickling into his face and ready to face another day as long as she was with him and they will meet and he will kiss her warm lips and hold her tight in his arms. 

He urges himself to wake, but when he does not— he is beginning to realise, filled with dread, that inkings of unadulterated terror and grief trickling into the pits of his stomach, that perhaps he’s been awake this _whole_ time. 

But life is too much like a book to cling to clichés and the concept of sadness has been one that has wreaked the fullest extent of _havoc_ on Spencer’s own book of life for far too long. Almost thirty one years and all but nine have been so tragic that Homer himself would collapse in the _woe_ of it all. 

The thoughts are coming down on him now, crushing him in the painful recognition that humans are a fickle species, and sometimes it is truly the neglect of their own mortality that creeps up on them in the end. 

_She’s dead_ , he thinks, trying to drill it into his brain, _she dead and she’s never coming back and your life will continue to consume you until eventually you join her._

_You need to snap out of it, Spencer._ He thinks, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince himself. 

Because despite everything screaming at him to wake up and smell the goddamn roses, there’s hope. 

And just as hope is the most powerful thing in the the world. It is also the one thing that holds the power to obliterate everything in its path. 

_False hope_ , he ponders, distracting himself, _it is the only thing more destructive then entropy._

He doesn’t register it when JJ sits next to him, nor does he realise he’s resting his head heavily on her shoulder. The sobs that has wracked his body mere hours before are gone and yet he’s still sitting on the cold edge of the ambulance. 

“We need to go, Spence,” her voice is soft, comforting. 

For a moment he focuses on tearing it apart as he would someone’s handwriting. JJ’s voice is soft and sweet, he thinks as she leads him to the back of a familiar SUV, his legs carrying him despite the feeling of floating; but in direct contrast to the softness and sweetness, there is a soft underlying bite— a rasp that he only notices as his head lies upon her chest. 

_When had he gotten there_ , he wonders fleetingly, before carrying on with his thoughts. Her voice is much like a rose in itself, soft petals that can be a wide variety of colours, but the undercurrents can be much like that of the thorns that prick you when you least expect it. 

_JJ in herself is kind of like a rose in that way as well_ , he supposes.

If he focuses, he can feeling her fingers tracing up and down his spine, and he can feel his contacts drying and he stares blankly at the pocket in the car door.

He’s almost certain that Rossi and Hotch are also in the vehicle, and— _oh_ , Morgan is sitting beside him. He cannot quite _feel_ the burning ofMorgan’s eyes on the side of his head, but he’s almost _certain_ it’s there.

He can, however, hear the differing of pitches in the rumbling of voices around him, enough to know that everyone in the car is speaking. It’s the repeated word, one that is only composed of a single syllable that leads him to the conclusion that they are, in fact, trying to grab his attention.

He’s miles away, though.

In hopes of quelling him he lets his eyes close, somewhere in the back of his mind— the one that Maeve fell in love with, a voice supplies unhelpfully— he registers that JJ has moved her hand from his spine to the crown of his head, pulling at the strands of tangled hair. 

If she continues, he may fall asleep— but he can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, that would not be such a bad thing.

That is until he wakes up and he’s still the same place he was before. JJ is coaxing him away from sleep but he chalks it up to thinking maybe his mind just went blank, _that’s it_. For the first time in his life, in a dream state, he drew a blank, _none_ of this is _happening_. 

Once again, he’s gliding into his apartment and once he reaches it Morgan pulls his keys out of the messenger bag over his shoulder.

_That looks a lot like his own messenger bag,_ he thinks— and he wonders for a moment if you can get drunk off of dreams— and then he realizes it _is_ his messenger bag.

“I’ll run him a bath,” He hears Alex say, and his eyes follow her as she disappears into his bedroom.

Before he can process what’s happened, Hotch is moving Spencer’s arm around his neck and wrapping his own limbs around Spencer’s lithe torso, leading him to the bathroom where he sits him on the closed toilet seat.

Spencer stares at the chipped paint bordering the crowning of his wall, failing to eavesdrop on any part of the conversation that Hotch and Blake are having.

He knows they’re talking to him, he can tell they are, but he’s underwater— _another cliché_ — everything is murky and he can’t begin to dissect any of this. It’s jumbled, and he cannot for the life of him recall a single time that he has been this out of it.

Hotch and Blake start bickering softly, and a third voice enters the conversation. And then, the silence begins to ring and it’s then and only then that he realises that this is the first time it has even truly silent.

His hands find his ears, trying to drown out the ringing but it’s too loud— it’s deafening. He spots a fumbling motion from the corner of his eyes, and then the ringing begins to settle— drowned out by an orchestra suite. It’s not loud enough for Reid to place it, just loud enough to get rid of the silence.

Slowly, his hands drop to his sides— but he doesn’t have the urge to tap his fingers to a pattern that only he can see. For the first time in a _long_ time, Spencer is entirely still.

He doesn’t register that he’s in the warm bath water, or that Alex is cleaning the matted blood from his hair until she tells him, “close your eyes.”

He does as he’s told, not having the energy to fight her and Hotch. She cups her hand over his forehead like a visor, anyways, careful to keep the soap out of it eyes.

It is as Hotch scrubs the blood from under Spencer’s fingernails that a rather pressing thought occurs to him. If it were any other time, he would be kicking and screaming at the thought of being given a bath.

But he’s a shell of his former self— _cliché_ , the Spencer that was there just a few hours ago is suppressed somewhere within him; so far gone that he hasn’t begun to even try to process what has happened.

He should be utterly _abashed_ , his unit chief and a woman that he looks up to are seeing parts of him that few people have ever seen before.

Something within him becomes tranquil, though, reminding him that both Blake and Hotch have been parents— and no matter what the feeble and self-deprecating part of his brain tells him— they love him unconditionally.

So, he lets them take care of him, because he knows he’s not strong enough to— and more than that, he knows that the second he finds himself, he _will_ shut them out for an indefinite amount of time.

Once the matted blood has been washed away, and the clothing made sticky and dyed has been cleaned and/or disposed of, JJ helps him into a pair of joggers and a long sleeved shirt. She lets him balance on her as he mindlessly shoves his limbs through the holes of the soft fabric, and eventually leads him to a freshly made bed.

It’s smells like lavender, he notices as JJ pulls the blankets up to his chin, that’s a Garcia signature— he must’ve been home for longer than he thought.

But then he realises, the only fabric on the bed that actually belongs to him is that of the ancient solar system pillow.

He falls asleep to JJ running nimble fingers through his hair, and they continue until he’s long since started letting out exhausted snuffles.

After a while, she presses a soft kiss to Spencer’s forehead, turning on the fan, and slipping out of the room.

She meets the team in the Reid’s kitchen, where they all stare at their folded hands, utterly lost.

“What do we do?” Garcia breathes, “This is just the _beginning_ and not once in my life have I seen him like this.”

“We do whatever he _needs_ us to do,” Hotch responds softly, his voice yearning to crack, “And we’ll give him however much time he needs.”

Morgan, whose own eyes have begun to mist over, speaks up, trying desperately to lighten a situation that lies in unexplored territory, “Is that an order, sir?” 

And with a heavy sigh, Aaron confirms it with a nod, murmuring, “ _yes_. That’s an _order_.”

One by one, they slip past their sleeping friend’s door, wishing him one last solid night of sleep.

And with his apartment locked, and their own limbs weary with the familiar ache of heartbreak, they all find solace in their own beds— unsure of how they’ll move on if the Reid they all know and love had died with Maeve in that warehouse.


	2. denial.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.”
> 
> \- sylvia plath,

It’s at six in the morning that his alarm clock rings, and Spencer carries on with his daily life. He winces at the pounding in the back of his head, bringing his cool fingertips to his eyes— trying to remove them of the irritation.

_He must’ve been crying in his sleep,_ he thinks as the golden rays begin to peek through his curtains. It’s unsurprising considering his dream of Maeve the night before, though he does find it odd that his sheets smell like lavender, after all, that had been apart of the dream as well.

Allowing the stray thought to roll off his shoulders, he pushed himself up, cracking his bones pleasantly as he lets out a sigh and opens up the windows to allow the morning light to filter in.

_Zugzwang_ , he ponders passingly, rotating the faucet to a cooler temperature than what it had been set on before, _what a silly word for a dream to center around_ — though given the context he supposes it’s accurate.

He finds his time showering to be full of thoughts about dream analysis, and he even thinks back to his conversations with morgan about it over four years ago.

When he reaches for the conditioner that’s always directly to his left, he finds it’s moved itself up to a higher shelf. His brows furrow, and he squeezes a small glob of it into his hand before returning the jet black bottle to its original place on the wall.

Once he’s done showering, he pulls the grey towel off the silver rung next to his shower, becoming even more confused when he realises the grey towel that always entertains the wall is now the purple one he usually sets in the guest bathroom.

He blinks, once, twice, three times, brushing it off as a coincidence that he had had a dream involving being bathed and now everything in his bathroom was shuffled around.

_That’s it_ , he soothes, _you must have been sleepwalking, everything is fine._

He talks in his sleep, so this isn’t that unrealistic. He moves about his kitchen, making an espresso before he picks up his regular order that the coffee shop right near Quantico.

He stops just before he leaves, coffee shot gone. He takes a moment to button his cardigan over his tie, and to slip his messenger bag over his shoulder.

He decides to walk to Quantico today— the ever present theme of _stopping to smell his roses_ stuck in his head from his long slumber. When he walks into the coffee shop, the normal barista— Rose, _ironic_ as it were, gives him a sad smile that he doesn’t quite understand.

It’s like she _knows_ something he _doesn’t_.

“Your usual, Spencer?” She inquires kindly, voice softer than usual.

“Yes please,” he replies, simply.

She returns with the coffee, and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet but she simply lays a hand over his.

“It’s on the house, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and when Spencer opens his mouth to object, she simply shakes her head, “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

_That was weird_ , he thinks, but instead of saying the thought out loud, he just sends her a warm smile, thanking her as he turns on his worn converse clad feet. 

When he enters the BAU, he gets odd looks from the interns and... well— pretty much everyone who sees him.He wonders briefly if he has something on his face, but quickly brushes the thought away.

He takes his time, walking into the briefing room where he can hear the the television running. Everything is just so off, they never listen to the news before a meeting.

And he still has five minutes to spare.

But when he walks in, everyone looks up at him and Penelope’s hand flies to the remote turning the the screen off within a second.

He looks at them, unsure of what to say. They were definitely talking about him— he knows because they went dead _silent_ the second he walked in.

“ _Boy Wonder,_ ” Penelope coos, voice light as if she were looking at a wounded bunny she’d been nursing back to health, “We didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“What do you mean?” Spencer mumbles, tapping a rhythm against his thigh that Blake’s eyes immediately fall upon, eyes filled with despair.

He doesn’t know what he’s missing, but whatever it is, it’s driving him insane. He _always knows_ what’s going on.

And this time, he’s just at a loss.

“Sweetheart,” Penelope says, taking hand hand but he pulls away, eyes narrowing.

“Garcia,” he sighs, “What do you know that I don’t? Why are you treating me like I’m wounded?”

“Kiddo,” Blake starts softly, “You know last night was _real,_ right? It’s wasn’t a dream.”

Spencer blinks at her, “yeah it— yeah it was; but how did you know that I dreamt about Maeve?”

He watches as Morgan and Hotch’s faces fall, looking anywhere but him.

“Spence,” JJ murmurs, resting a hand on his back as she leads him out of the room, “We need to talk, but I’m just gonna take you home first okay?”

“JJ, why is everyone treating me like I’m going to fall apart?” He hisses, “what do you know that I don’t?”

She shakes her head, “Not now, let me take you home. Do you want to get something to eat with me first?”

He blinks at the question, stopping her full force with his own halt, “Jayje, we haven’t gotten breakfast since after our fight about Emily. What’s going on?”

“If you get waffles with me, I’ll explain once we get back to your apartment,” She soothes reassuringly, sending him a soft smile, “I _promise_ you that.”

He looks at her warily, trying to seek out any lie— any dip in her tone, anything to suggest that she’s lying; when he finds none, he just nods, letting her take him to her car.

He clambers into the front seat, buckling his belt. As they drive, he allows himself the get lost in his thoughts once again.

_What could they possibly know, that he doesn’t?_

But then, the dangerous thought— the one that creeps up on him with the malevolent voice in the back of his mind whispers, “ _What if the thing they know, is the very thing you refuse to process, dream boy?”_

Swallowing hard, he shoves the thought away, and when he feels JJ’s hand take his own he just looks up at her. She squeezes his, and he simply squeezes hers back, knowing that the probability of his world remaining upright within the next few hours, is about as likely as Spencer JJ offering him waffles from Roanoke before giving him inevitably earth-shattering news. 

“Do you want some syrup?” JJ questions, still holding the glass pourer above her own pancakes.

She doesn’t wait for an answer, already knowing it. She lets the jar hover over his meal, and just as he’s about to open his mouth to tell her that she’s coated them to his liking, she tips the jar back upright, making eye contact.

“Did you want more?” She asks, eyebrows furrowing.

Spencer shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth, “No— I, um, you got it perfect. Thanks.”

“We’ve shared too many waffles for me to not know your ideal syrup serving,” she whispers, “Well, that and I know you almost as well as I know myself.”

It earns a soft smile from him as he starts cutting into his chocolate chip waffles, but he can’t seem to shake the feeling of JJ’s eyes burning into him.

“If you don’t want me to keep asking what’s going on you can’t stare at me like I’m going to fall apart,” He doesn’t move his eyes from his waffle cutting handiwork, shoving a piece into his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” She says softly, taking a bite of her own blueberry waffles before continuing, “What do you want to talk about?”

“What’s Henry’s favourite colour this week?” He murmurs fondly.

“Now that I can do,” She grins, “It’s still purple. Just like his _favourite_ Uncle.” 

“Okay,” Spencer sighs, setting his messenger bag on the counter, “you need to tell me what I’m missing.” 

“That dream that Alex was mentioning,” she speaks slowly, voice barely above a whisper as she guides him to sit on the leather of his couch, “the one about Maeve?” 

Spencer can feel his eyebrows furrowing, “How did you—“ 

“Because it happened,” she says softly, “We tried to change things in your bathroom in case the denial hit you, the purple towel, the conditioner bottle? We even left your faucet on a cooler setting than normal.” 

The air leaves his lungs, “JJ, she’s _not_ dead.” 

His best friend only nods at him, eyes welling up with her own tears as she licks her lips, “she is, Spence. We brought you home, cleaned you up, and tucked you in. You fell asleep in my arms twice. I was mortified, I thought we lost you in that warehouse too.” 

“JJ,” He gasps, the words hitching in his throat, “why would you _lie_ to me like this, I don’t _understand_.” 

She cups his face, “Spence, sweetheart. It’s okay to cry, but you need to remember to breathe.” 

_He was crying_? Oh, he thinks as he feels the familiar scorching of brined water on his cheeks, yeah, he was. 

“JJ... I— she can’t be.”

It only takes one look at her to know that JJ isn’t lying.

And for the first time in his life he truly doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get how any God could hate one of his creations so _profoundly_. 

“I’d show you the news, but I don’t think that’s going to help you right now,” She whispers, running her thumbs softly over the sides of his face where her hands lay firmly. “She’s gone, but whatever you need, we’re absolutely here for you.” 

“Even if I just need to cry?” He finds himself saying, barely managing it over the sobs that threaten to overtake him. 

“ _Especially_ if you just need to cry,” She murmurs in affirmation, and when she sees him looking at her shoulder despondently, she simply pulls him down towards her. 

He grips onto her like she’s his lifeline, sobs wracking his body so powerfully that they even begin to shake own frame. 

She just whispers, silent murmurs meant to reassure him that everyone on the team loves him, that he’ll get through this— all the things she wanted someone to say to her when she lost her sister. 

Slowly but surely, the tension in his back drains, his sobs softening before fading into occasional choked whimpers. “Is it any _easier_ to breathe?”

Spencer shakes his head softly, and she pulls back to see his face. Her heart breaks just a little bit more. 

She sweeps the hair from his eyes, wiping his face free of his tears, “Do you want to try to get some rest?” 

He just stares back and she understands that he’s answering enough with his silence— she hears the unspoken words of, ‘ _I’m too exhausted to respond’._

She simply sets a pillow on her lap, allowing him to ease down onto it. She strokes his hair softly, reciting a random bedtime story that she’s read a million times over and over again to Henry. One about a selfish cat and pumpkin pie that she knows inside and out. 

She repeats it until Spencer’s eyes, the ones that gradually close longer between blinks, flutter to a shut and his hitching breaths turn into calmed ones that are deep and even ones. 

“Sleep _well_ , Spencer,” she says, kissing his forehead. After successfully slipping out from under his head, she sends a quick glance to make sure he’s still sleeping soundly, before writing out a note on the table. 

When she returns to the briefing room, they all look at her with expectant eyes, “He knows.”

“That’s _all_ you’re going to tell us?” Morgan sighs, “He knows? What happened _after_ that?” 

“He... he took it well... considering. He cried for a couple hours. He ran out of tears, and I waited until he nodded off,” she says softly, fiddling with her hands, “I— uh, I peeked in his cabinets and fridge and there wasn’t much. God knows how long he’s going to shut us out when he wakes up. I just got him some essentials—mostly water bottles— put them in his fridge, left notes reminding him to eat. He was still asleep when I left.” 

She’s bites into her bottom lip and they watch her carefully. It’s Aaron who speaks up next, “How long for you think he’s going to go off the grid for?”

“At least two weeks,” She mumbles, wiping her eyes, “ _God_ — I’ve never seen him like that.”

“ _Oh_ , Jayje,” Penelope breathes, wrapping her arms around her friend, “It’s Spencer, he’ll be back in no time.”

“I think this one’s different,” She annunciates, trying harder than ever to stop the wobbling in her voice, “I think our Spencer is still crumpled in that warehouse.”

Their heads bow, as JJ’s near silent cries fill the room, muffled by Penelope’s shoulder.

“We’ll send him some fruit,” Penelope says, “We’ll send him some fruit, and- and we’ll send him some muffins, and eventually he’ll be _okay_.”

“Do we know when the funeral is?” Blake inquires hesitantly, “Should we go with him?” 

“ _Only_ if he _asks_ ,” Morgan answers, voice more sure than it’s been in days. “He’s going to put up those goddamn walls of his, and as much as I hate to admit it we need to let him process this however he needs to. Capisce?”

And like class of distraught kindergarteners responding to their teacher, they all croak back, “ _Capisce_.”


	3. anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.”  
> \- sylvia plath.

When Spencer wakes up it’s early again and he quickly realises that he must’ve been out for a long time. He’s laying face down on the couch, an arm dangling over the edge and he can feel the dried drool caked on the side of his cheek. He groans, wiping his lip.

But once he’s awake, he remembers why he had woken up on the couch. His heart aches with the realisation of the matter and he sits up, gnawing on his bottom lip.

He’s too dehydrated to produce tears, but he’s too tired to worry about getting up to putting any type of hydration into his body.

Once his eyes focus, he sees the note on the table and slowly he forces himself to pick it up, face still glued to the armrest of the couch beneath as his reads it.

_Hey Spence,_ JJ’s spindly handwriting addresses him, _I got you some groceries as I fully anticipate you needing time alone. We love you so much, and we’re here for you. Drink some water and eat some toast, ok?_

He sighs, dropping the note and rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. It doesn’t take him long to realise he’s still dressed in what he’d worn to Quantico the day before.

But to be frank, he doesn’t really care.

And for a moment, he’s finds himself concerned that he _never_ will care again. 

Two days pass, and that thought is immediately thrown to the wind when he finds himself mulling over the last ninety six hours in his head. The more he thinks the more frustrated he becomes, both with diane, and with himself. It was the _perfect_ lie and it should have worked, she should’ve believed it, and Maeve should be alive and with him right now.

He lets himself get lost in his mind for a moment, the feeling of Maeve’s soft lips pressing against this own, they way she would have nipped at his lower lip and the way— he stops himself, he has no room to get lost in a fantasy and he knows that the second he lets himself is the exact moment that the team loses him forever. 

He shoves down the thought, sacrificing his own ecstasy in light of those who need him to function. 

But it’s with the dismissal of the good thoughts that the chagrin floods in, matching him double or nothing. It’s the same voice that told him that he’s the reason his father left and that he is the only one to blame for his childhood pitfalls.

‘ _You killed her,_ ’ it hisses, and the words coil around his neck like an anaconda around it’s prey, ‘ _you always think you’re more intelligent than you are, that your brain will get you out of anything but Maeve was just a martyr or you to see your own unforgivable acts of narcissism, you deserve to hurt for the rest of you life.’_

And much to Spencer’s own dismay, he’s beginning to _believe_ it. He rises to his feet pacing back and forth, taking nails between his teeth as he tries to drown out the words.

Pins and needles prick beneath his skin and the familiar fire of frustration (built on the foundations of never being enough) boils in his stomach. He needs to do something, needs to be destructive because after all the things he’s had to do, after all the things he’s seen and heard and- and all the things he’s.... after everything, all the things he’s made whole again he needs to find away to tear himself apart so he can build himself back up the way he was supposed to be created.

He watches the familiar book facings fly past his eyes as they open all around him. His fingers continue to find find the bindings of each and everyone one of his books, and before he can stop himself he’s tearing them out of their safe havens; he’s sending them flying across those room. Those same angry tears are rushing down his cheeks and his sobs are hiccuping up and out of him. He’s panting, fingers attacking the shelves he’d methodically organised again and again with each new book.

Once they’re empty and he’s staring and stained wood he pulls apart his files and folders, everything that _can_ be ripped apart _is_. 

And when he’s done and when the air that he tries to take in rasps in his lungs, he thinks he needs to rebuild but there’s an emptiness in him. One that, when it’s not burning with rage, is diminished to nothing, leaving him empty and so unenthusiastic that he can’t bring himself to bring himself back together.

It’s a vicious cycle, to be able to tear yourself apart every day a little more but never being able to find the willingness to put yourself back together.

He can feel the sweat beading on his hairline and at the back of his neck, it drives him utterly insane, fingers twitching at the feeling of uncontrolled perspiration. He hates when things are out of control, and it rushes over him at once that he hates all of this more than he’s ever hated anything is because he has no control over _any_ of this— he _never_ did.

Not over Maeve’s feelings, he never even had them overhis own, and just as the anger evaporated— it’s back. He finds himself hurling a book across the room. It hits the front door with a slap, before falling ungracefully to the floor, just as Garcia’s voice fills the air— _when had the phone started ringing?_

“Hey Kiddo,” she sighs, voice barely above a whisper, “I just wanted you to know that they released the date for Maeve’s wake. It’s Saturday at two, her parents invited all of us, but her parents specifically wanted you..... Alright Boy Wonder, make sure you drink some water today, if not for yourself then for me. Sending tons of gift baskets. Love you lots.”

There’s a click, and then he’s overwhelmed with the silence again.

With the quietness raging within and around him, he makes his way to the bedroom tearing apart everything and he doesn’t stop to think about how confused the people living below him must be.

There’s the unmistakable shattering of glass from the picture frames on his dresser and there’s the thudding of books and clothing— but it’s only once he reaches the bed— the one that JJ must’ve remade for him before she left his apartment three days ago. He crumbles to his knees before it, tears burning down his cheeks as he struggles to suck in a sustainingbreath.

He presses his back to the floor, the cool hardwood pressing back against the cotton of his shirt. He lies there for a long moment, heaving in and out as he tries to get the frustration burning within him to settle. When it does, it doesn’t come in the form of an exhausted sleep like he had hoped, only in the form of the ever present loneliness, amplified with depression and despair.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, there’s a knock on his front door, and he prays to God that if it’s JJ, that she doesn’t use the spare key he gave her in case of emergencies. 

“Hey kiddo,” it’s Penelope, “Jayje is with me. Are you alive in there? If you don’t give us anything we’re coming in to check your pulse.” 

All Spencer can manage to do is to clamber onto his made bed, head collapsing onto the pillow. When he hears the door open, he closes his eyes forcing himself not to wince when he hears the gasp at the state of his apartment.

“Oh, _Spencer_ ,” Penelope breathes, “My beautifully brained Boy Wonder.”

“Pen,” JJ’s voice is at the threshold of his bedroom. “Oh Spence, what’s going on in there?”

He hears her steps stop abruptly and a soft sigh leaves her lips, and a second pair of stepsjoin her.

“He must’ve tuckered himself out,” Penelope murmurs, and he can hear her sifting through the top part of his linen closet, before he feels her tuck a blanket around him.

He feels JJ tuck a strand of straggled hair behind his ear, and it’s with her touch that he realises that maybe isolating himself isn’t the best way to deal with this.

But he doesn’t know how to do this any other way. Distantly, he hears Penelope set a water on his nightstand and he feels them both press a soft kiss to his head before the door clicks shut.

Tucked under a blanket, he feels sleep pull at him until he’s wrapped in the warmth of glowing mornings and the arms of someone he will _never_ hold.


	4. bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;  
> My heart within me like a stone  
> Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;  
> Look right, look left, I dwell alone;  
> A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief  
> No everlasting hills I see;  
> My life is like the falling leaf;  
> O Jesus, quicken me.“  
> -sylvia plath, a better resurrection.

It’s Friday night, and Reid is praying to every God he’s never believed in. He told Thomas Hankel six years ago, almost to the day that he was taught the bible, that he could recite every scripture— and he was telling the truth, but something in him, when he was seven or eight— whenever kids decided that not understanding was a reason to pants a child who couldn’t save himself was okay— he stopped _believing_. 

He was told that God is good and he protects all his creations, that he wants help and harmony and love and he forgives all but Spencer could never understand how some acts were forgivable. 

The first time he questioned that was with Tobias Hankel. And now, he finds that he’s questioning it all over again.

Spencer stands in his bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t changed his outfit since the day that JJ told him that everything was real, he hasn’t shaved, he hasn’t showered, he hasn’t _breathed_ well. 

But he’s sick of sleeping on the couch, and he doesn’t know who he’ll be if he talks to Maeve’s parents as an utter wreck.

And more than that, he doesn’t want the smell of Garcia’s lavender fabric softener to disappear.

It took him two, painfully long days to figure out if he was going to go out or not, two days trying desperately to figure out how he could begin to explain to them that his own _incompetence and narcissism_ was the reason that their daughter was never, _ever_ coming back to them.

So he settles down in his bath, unable to process the amount of energy he would need to muster to take a shower that night and the next morning.

And that’s how he finds himself, with just his face sticking out of the water, breathing in the humid air as he silently prays to every God he has never believed in.

He starts with his parents— his own, he supposes. He moves slowly through every every other culture that comes to mind, from Allah and Buddha, to the spirits of Nigeria, so on and so forth until he finds himself back at his own God and his bath water chilled over.

Sighing, he accepts it, resigning himself to finishing the bath in the water as it become more and more cold and much like that first night he can’t help but find himself wondering

He scrubs at his hair with nails that are just a little too long, washing out all the grease and grime. He rinses it, moving to his body before too ridding himself of soap. He drains the tub, rising to his feet as he wraps the towel around his waist.

He runs a quick poll in his head— should he shave or drink some water.

Garcia’s words ring in his head and he decides that while he’s at it, he should probably try to force some toast down as well. The last thing he remembers eating is four saltine crackers yesterday, before that a coffee, and before that his waffles with JJ.

It’s at this realisation that he allows his eyes to travel down to his lithe frame. He’s not all too surprised to find bruising around the bullet wound, nor is he surprised to find his bones a little more pronounced than usual.

Just as his metabolism isn’t much off from a teenagers, he’s essentially an embarrassment to nutritionists everywhere— and that’s when he’s _not_ spending all day sleeping from depression.

He has a habit of bouncing between insomnia and exhaustion, walking a thin line of purple melatonin gummies and caffeine pills at all times. He can hear Garcia in his head scolding him, but it never seems to help.

He shoves down his thoughts, running a hand over the— _oh_ , there’s a _beard_. He’s never had a full beard, he thinks passingly, and he doesn’t taking a liking it very much. He slowly slips into some clean clothes, forcing himself to put a load in the wash.

After that’s settled, he walks into the kitchen pulling a water bottle into his hands, pushing his bum onto the counter below. He takes slow, refreshing sips, opening another one as he tests out his stomach.

After deciding that he’s not in danger of having anything come back up, he settles on a slightly browning banana, one that JJ must’ve bought completely green, he thinks fleetingly.

After that, his stomach is full on the water and banana and, well, really from abuse and disuse it in of the past few weeks.

But it’s as he lays down on the bed, snuggled under the blankets where he should feel comfortable enough to fall asleep— that he can’t.

That’s when the thoughts begin to over take him— the ones that never seem to end, let alone end well.

What if he had been there earlier? He thinks distantly. What if Maeve and he had never had met, would she still have died? What if he’d understood ‘it’s easy as pi sooner’? What if he had just told the truth? What if he’d just kissed Diane back?

But for each of the questions that rage in his head, they all have two answers, and most of them are the same.

She’d still be dead, and you couldn’t possibly know what would’ve happened.

But that doesn’t stop the thoughts from toppling over him like and avalanche, where they eventually lead to one specific and ever present idea.

_What if you were good enough?_

And it’s that thought that hits home just a little bit different. His fingers twitch to rip something apart, but is apartment is already in shreds, so instead he huffs, and crams his face against a pillow, willing himself to sleep.

Spencer finds himself praying silently to himself once again.

_I just want one more chance,_ he begs, but he knows the laws of nature would never let him have that, and every God he’s ever believed him has only ever hurt him over and over again. _I’ll tell you what, give me a sign that you’re real, and I’ll move on and I’ll try to convince myself that love isn’t utterly impossible._

He comes to the conclusion that despite this being the first thing he’s asked of God since he was kidnapped, he can’t help but think that once again he truly is just alone in this world, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

With a heavy sigh, he rolls back onto his back, hands clasped over his duvet, and staring at the ceiling as his eyes close.

His last conscience thought is that for the first time in his life, he’s terrified that the world _is_ Godless after all. 


	5. depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of the throat and I'd cry for a week.” 
> 
> -sylvia plath, the bell jar.

It’s Saturday morning, and Reid is sitting on the floor of his shower, water running over him as the orchestral suite plays in the background. To be completely honest, it’s just there to drown out the thoughts that have been plaguing him since last night, as well as serving to mute the anxiety around the fact that he’s almost one hundred percent certain Maeve’s parents want him there to rip him to shreds. 

But tomato with different pronunciations based on dialect, right? 

_You’re a mess_ , he thinks, _you’re going to get off the floor on three._

And so he counts to three, running through the motions before wrapping his grey towel around his waist. Once out, he finds his shavers and starts to slowly free himself of the course hair that has made itself at home on his face. He trims his nails, and looks at himself one more time. 

_Nope, still a train wreck— but slightly less so_. 

“Hey, Reid?” He can tell it’s Penelope’s voice even from inside the bathroom, “I just wanted to let you know that Maeve’s funeral is at two, I wasn’t sure if you got my voicemail or not. The team is going to go at four just to pay our respects and bring a basket to the Donovan’s, I just wanted to let you know in case you still need time from us. We love you, Boy Wonder.” 

She doesn’t come in, or say anything more, and Reid is left alone again with his thoughts. 

“I love you _too_ ,” he mumbles as if she’ll be able to hear him. 

He stares at his reflection for a few more moments, prior to coming to the conclusion that he’s presentable enough for someone who has only showered twice in the last week. 

Slowly, he makes his way to his closet, pulling out a pair of black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a black suit jacket. Once he’s dressed, he slides a belt around his waist, sighing when he has to pull it two full slots tighter than usual. 

And then, he ties a light blue tie around his neck, and Maeve’s voice rings through in his head. 

_“Did you know that the Latin word for blue was Caeruleum? It’s pretty similar to the word caelum, which means sky— and actually the original color— at least in ancient societies was probably more like and indigo or rich purple—“ She’s rambling, and Spencer’s grinning to himself, “was that too much information?”_

_“No,” he chuckles, before adding softly, “the reason blue was different than it is today is because blue isn’t really something we see in nature frequently, so it was hard for them to create the synthetic dyes we see today.”_

_A moment of silence passes between them, before Maeve whispers back, as if sharing a secret, “blue is my favourite colour.”_

When Spencer comes back to reality, he’s holding his tie in his finger tips. He closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths as he calms his raging mind. 

And it’s with a brief glance at the clock, that he sighs, grabbing his keys and heading out the door. 

Spencer has never liked funerals all that much, he’s seen death first-hand, but there’s just something about the one last look at a loved one that leaves him unsettled. He supposes it might also be the frustration that accompanies people who have never cared for you in life only feeling guilt when you’re gone. 

There’s a lot of signatures in the book for Maeve, but Reid can’t bring himself to sign it— not yet, anyway. 

He catches a glance of Maeve’s parents and his brain shuts down, jaw slacking as he stares. What’s the point of having and IQ of 187 if his brain shuts down the second he gets overwhelmed. 

They don’t seem to see him, and for that he’s thankful, disappearing into the crowd. He can see people staring at him, and he never did see the news report but he’s almost certain that if they got any of it there was video of JJ and Morgan hauling him unresponsive and utterly shell shocked out of that stupid warehouse. 

And then, someone grabs his arm. He flinches, waiting for the person to hurl unforgiving words, to blame him for her death, to tell him that _he_ should be the one with a a bullet in his head. 

But instead, he looks down and sees Rose from the coffeeshop staring back at him. 

“ _Spencer_ ,” She utters softly, southern accent wrapping around him, “ _hey_.” 

Spencer licks his lips, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak as he’s only said a handful of words since Maeve died, “Hi, Rose.” 

She places a hand on both of his shoulder, mumbling to herself, “We need to get some scones in you, huh? How are you?”

“I’m....” he hesitates, blinking always the blurred edges, “I’m fine.” 

She doesn’t push him, only nodding, “Alright... if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” 

“Rose?” He asks as she turns, “What was on the news that day?” 

Her already sad eyes become more distraught, “You never watched it?” 

He shakes his head, struggling to find his words, “JJ told me it wouldn’t be good for me to see— but everyone’s looking at me and... I just— I don’t know what it means.” 

She sighs softly, “They didn’t say your name, but the reporter said that an agent was requested specifically by the Unsub due to his attachment to Maeve. I don’t think many realise that _you’re_ the agent, but it’s clear as day that you’re the one, covered in blood, who was being hauled out of there unblinking, hun.” 

“How bad was it?” He asks breathlessly. 

She sends him a sad, half-smile, “Pretty bad. They headed towards you but... oh, Hotch, I think; he pushed them back faster than I’ve ever seen anyone respond to something. When I saw you in the coffee shop the next day it was like I’d seen a _ghost_.” 

“Thank you,” he calls as she turns to give him some space.

She just nods, waving goodbye as she disappears back towards the cars. 

And suddenly, it seems that everyone has something to ask of him, huddling around him. There’s so many questions and so much noises that he can feel himself beginning to shake, they’re all coming at him from different angles and the world is absolutely spinning. 

But there’s one voice that gets to him, and it’s one that’s painfully familiar. 

“Spencer,” it’s Blake’s voice, and he can feel her arm on him as she pulls him away from the group of people who are seeming to realise that crowding around him was probably not the best idea, “breathe. It’s okay, breathe for me.” 

She loosens the tie around his neck, kneeling in front of him— _when had he sat down_? 

“There you go, you’re alright,” She coos softly, tipping his chin up so he’ll look at her instead of his shaking knees, “It’s just me, the rest of the team won’t be hear for an hour, but I had a feeling that you’d be getting more attention than would he remotely productive.”

His breaths are still coming out in wheezed, but if feels like his lungs are indeed filling up— so that’s good.

Eventually, he manages to get out, “what were they saying?” 

She must see the anxiousness in his eyes, because she shakes her head, “Most of them were just asking how you were, but a few of them were asking how you were involved, if you were the agent. But, Spencer, none of them were _blaming_ you.” 

He’s not sure how she understood what he was thinking, but she did and he’s thankful for it. 

She rises to her feet, holding out her hands and Spencer takes them. Before he can stop himself, he’s wrapped around her— and she doesn’t hesitate, hugging him back. 

“It’s good to see your face,” she sighs into his shoulder, “I was worried you’d be a bag of bones by time we saw you next.”  He doesn’t speak, and she doesn’t seem to mind, just running a soothing hand over his back.

“Keep talking,” he finds himself saying, “it’s _too quiet._ ”

So she does, she talks about the team and about all the gift baskets penelope has been outing together for him. She talks about how much they love him and how much they miss him and how proud they are of him.

Eventually, he finds the strength to pull away and when he does, he sees the Donovan’s eyes on him.

Blake follows his eyes, before nodding, “You should go talk to them.”

He nods taking a deep breath. For a moment, it’s like he’s back at the crime scene, legs carrying him while his brain wanders.

But then he stops, in front of them, in front of the casket— in front of Maeve. He can’t look at them, not after he’s the reason their child his gone.

“You’re Doctor Reid, right?” It’s Maeve’s mother, he knows her voice from the interviews, “We knew about you— Maeve told us, but we didn’t know you were in the FBI and... and the way she talked about you we never thought you could be a suspect.”

“After seeing you from the news... we realised that you must’ve felt the same as she did,” her father adds.

They’re silent and he’s almost positive they’re sharing a look, and then she speaks up again, “You know we don’t blame you, right?”

It’s at this that Spencer looks up, and he sees only honesty in her features, she’s waiting for him to speak and he does, “I-I made a mistake... I wasn’t good enough to—“

“It hurts,” Her father says, “our little girl is gone, I won’t tell you it doesn’t hurt, but we know two things that help us. One, she loved you, and two, we know that you tried to sacrifice yourself for her, we know that you were the one who watched her die, and we know that you’re lost too.”

Before he knows what’s happening, Maeve’s mother is pulling him down into her arms. She wraps him in a hug, and slowly but surely he manages to loosen his stiff frame.

And when she her frame starts shaking with sobs, he just rubs her back as Blake had his, apologising for everything.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” He whispers, “I wanted to save her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

He stays like that for a long time, holding her carefully, as if she were made of glass. When he finally parts, emotionally worn out, he stops looking at them.

“Every single time I close my eyes I see her, I dream about her and I have to force myself awake because I know it’s not real,” He mumbles, threading his fingers together, “I only knew her for ten months and... I can remember every word we’d ever shared and the first time I ever saw her was right before she died. I can’t imagine what it’s like... I’m so sorry.”

“If you ever want to hear about her,” Joe says softly, taking his wife’s hand, “You can always give us a call.”

Spencer nods, accepting one last embrace from both of them before pulling away. He sets a rose on the the top of her casket, whispering the silent and sweet thoughts that he nevernever got to say, before making his way back to his car.

He doesn’t see the team, but they _see_ him. They watch his fingers take the pen by the book, signing his name as his last stop before settling into the front seat of this car. 

“ _Oh_ , he’s so _thin_ ,” Penelope says on an exhale, hand finding her heart, “I’m going to start force feeding him chocolate bars the second he comes back.”

“Settle down, tiger,” Rossi says softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. He watches as Reid drops his head to the steering wheel, taking in some deep breaths before starting the engine. 

“He’s... _functioning_ , kind of,” Blake says coming to join them, “Though he did instigate a hug which was incredible alarming. Sirens went off everywhere.”

“He _hugged_ you?” JJ breathes, watching his car as it leaves her range of sight.

“Yeah, he said the silence was too much and had me talk to him while he was in my arms,” She confirms, “I think he’s hitting the fifth stage right now. Knowing Reid this’ll be the worst and the longest one.”

And they know she’s right, but it doesn’t mean they want to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im thinking about doing a bonus epilogue, but i have yet to write the last two chapters so y’all don’t have to let me know yet but pls do let me know what you think abt the story so far!


	6. testing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.”  
> -sylvia plath

Despite not knowing about her words, Alex’s assumption about depression being the longest stage of grief proves to be accurate. 

But then, Penelope and JJ are standing at his door, and when Garcia asks him to knock if he’s conscious, he complies. He hears a relieved sigh on the other end of the door, and then he hears the clicking of heels. 

It’s then that he decides that being trapped alone in his apartment with exception of the funeral is probably not helping him all that much.

It’s with a heavy sigh, that he forces himself to his feet. 

_One_ more day, he thinks as he runs his fingers over A Narrative of John Smith, one more day of letting myself wallow completely.It’s with that thought that he flops back down just as he did on the first day without Maeve. 

Slowly, he starts to get his life together. He starts by pulling seven gift baskets from the hall, all addressed to him from the team but he recognises a Garcia signature when he sees one. 

And despite the hollowness in his chest, he snorts when he sees a bottle of lavendar fabric softener tucked among a potted fern. 

But then the phone rings, and he just sighs, unable to bring himself to answer it just yet. He tells himself that he will eventually, just as he’ll manage to clean up his apartment, just not yet. 

He showers and gets dressed as if he was going to actually manage to bring himself to see Garcia, but he just can’t make himself quite yet.

He knows there’s a case with someone who is draining the blood from his victims, and he’s actually brought himself to speak to Morgan and Garcia, but there’s a part of him that’s just not quite there yet. So, before he goes into Quantico, he makes a stop at the coffee shop.

He’s not exactly surprised to find it empty, it’s ten in the morning on a Tuesday afternoon. He startles when Rose moves out from the back kitchen, and it seems like she does too. She mumbles something under her breath about fixing the bell on the door, a hand over her heart as she walks to the front of the store.

“Hi Darling,” She greets, slipping her apron around her waist, “What can get you?”

Spencer open and closes his mouth like a fish, unable to remember how he’s supposed to act around people. She doesn’t seem to mind though, simply watching him and waiting patiently for his order.

When he can’t seem to find the words, she hums silently, nodding as if she understands, “You look like you need a double shot of espresso.”

Spencer nod mutely, his eyes following her as she makes the coffee, pouring in just the right amount of sugar before capping it and setting it in front of him.

Spencer fumbles, realising he’s still just standing there utterly unresponsive. She laughs softly when he slips the credit card into her hands, allowing her to run it through the register.

He’s still just staring at her, at a complete loss for words. He _wants_ to thank her for checking in on him at the funeral, but he _can’t_ find the right words.

He must’ve spaced out again, he thinks fleetingly, because she’s slipping a blueberry croissant in front of him in a bag, a chocolate chip muffin beside it, “Give the croissant to your adorable little friend, the one who wears all the vivacious and eccentric clothing.”

“Do—“

“No, hun,” She says, placing the card back down on the receipt that’s only rung up for one double shot.

“ _Why_ are you being so kind?” He manages to force our, not without stuttering, and her eyes soften.

“Well, a few reasons. One, blame it on my southern hospitality. Two, we’ve lived in the same apartment building for three years and I saw all of those baskets— you _need_ to get food in you. Three, everyone needs a little help sometimes, it’s a fact of life. _Never_ be afraid to ask for it.”

Spencer blinks at her three times, opening and closing his mouth before mumbling, “You don’t want anything from me?”

“No,” she chirps, “Just want to see you happy again, and I know a coffee and a muffin won’t fix your heart, but it certainly can’t _hurt_ , turtle-dove.”

Spencer essentially becomes the definition of a short circuit, and he immediately returns to the only thing he’s confident about. Facts.

“Did you know that doing kind deeds for others is actually good for your heart? That feeling of warmth you get is from the production of oxytocin when you feel happy and it helps release this thing called nitric oxide in your blood vessels. Eventually, it leads to decreased blood pressure.” He blurts it out mechanically, before adding, “You didn’t tell me to stop talking.”

“No,” she responds softly, holding his coffee and baked goods out to him, “Because the first time we ever spoke you told me about how the difference in soil ph can produce a more or less bitter bean. It’s means you’re _actually_ feeling better.”

Spencer hesitates, taking the cup and paper bags from her hands, “You could see right through me, huh?”

“Well, saying you’re fine when you’re unconsciously loosening your tie generally spells ‘ _I’m not okay_ ’ in boldface script,” she sends him a half smile, and instead of pity in her eyes there’s empathy. “If you ever need someone to listen— someone who has a fresh set of ears, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, Rose,” He says earnestly, watching as she rolls her eyes.

“I think you have somewhere to be, I’ll be here whenever you get back.”

And for the first time, he thinks, maybe God _isn’t_ so cruel. 

Penelope is looping through all the information in front of her when two bags are placed next to her. She jumps, pulling off her head set as she waves an accusing finger, only to freeze when she sees who is staring back at her.

Before he can get out a single word she’s wrapping herself around him, and he coughs as she threatens to break a bone with her embrace, “Penelope, you’re hurting me.”

She pulls back swiftly, straightening his pea coat prior to grabbing his face between her hands, squishing it up.

“Boy Wonder, why are you here? I mean, I’m not complaining, but I mean _why_ are you _here_? You went from not answering our calls to showing up right in my office. Oh my God! This is the most facial hair I’ve ever seen you with! The world—“

“Penelope,” He mutters, holding her hands, “ _breathe_.” 

Her eyes tear up though, “Boy Wonder, how can I when I haven’t seen you in _two weeks_.”

“How soon can you get me out to San Francisco?”He says, voice still hoarse from disuse.

“You want to go _out_?” She gasps, only to pull him into another bone crushing hug that makes him groan, but this time he hugs back.

That is the second time he begins to wonder if God isn’t so cruel after all. 

After the haemophilia case, he’s sitting on the plane across from JJ, both looking out the window. He comes to realise that this is the best he’s felt since Maeve’s death— and by no means is he whole again, nor is he remotely over it, but it doesn’t feel like he’s being strangled anymore.

It’s with this thought that he allows his eyes to close, chin balanced on his palm. He can feel eyes on him, but still he remains unmoving, scared to ruin the peace that he’s feeling.

“You think he’s back?” Rossi questions softly.

JJ is the one to respond, voice barely above a whisper, “No. I think he’s getting there, but I don’t think he’s going to be completely dandy in two weeks.” 

“I’m just glad that I can see him— who knew the kid could grow facial hair?” They all laugh quietly at Morgan, who sounds slightly offended as continues, “What are you going to tell me that you _knew_ he could grow a beard? I didn’t _think_ so.”

“Look at him,” Blake sighs, “He’s been through Hell and back.”

“At least he’s resting,” He hears Hotch mumble, and within a moment of the comment he feels someone lay a blanket over his lap.

“Is someone protective of the little genius?” Rossi taunts, “Careful Hotch, next thing you know you’ll be feeling emotions.”

“I would _never_ dream of it,” He hisses, voice reeking of satire.

“You don’t have to,” Morgan chuckles, “Boy Genius seems to be doing all the dreaming for you.”

It’s when he wakes up to JJ’s hand on his shoulder that he realises he must’ve fallen asleep sometime during their conversation.

“Hey, we landed,” JJ coos, slowly bringing him back from his haze of sleep, “I’ll drive you back, the team will be right behind us.”

And it’s as he’s slipping the last stray book into its place, his apartment back to its normal state of organisation, that he realises for the third time, that maybe God isn’t so cruel after all. 


	7. acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”  
> -sylvia plath.

Spencer is startled awake from his dream by a hand on his shoulder, and rather than JJ hovering above him, he finds Rossi kneeling at eye level.

He pushes himself up instantly, heart racing at the uncommon occurrence, “Did something happen—“

“Whoa, Kid, settle down,” Rossi soothes him, and he takes a deep breath glancing around. Everyone is still asleep and he registers that the plane is descending, “did it work?”

“What? Me calming down?” He wheezes, running a hand across his face as he flops back down against the couch. “ _No_.”

“No,” Rossi sighs, rolling his eyes, “did you dance with her?”

“Oh,” Spencer swallows hard, “Yeah... did I do something to make you think otherwise?” 

Rossi shrugs complacently, and it’s then that Reid rolls his eyes. He’s almost positive he has a look slapped across his face that clearly reads, ‘ _you can’t just ask me that, and then not explain how you knew_.’

Spencer watches as Rossi’s eyes soften, and he sighs, before stating, “You’ve been out since before I was, and you were still out when I woke up... I guess I was just hoping that it worked. That you were getting closure.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Spencer utters dumbly, before adding, “yeah, I guess I did.”

“Did you get lost in the dream?” Rossi inquires, but not unkindly.

“No,” Spencer finds himself answering, “I’m still right here.”

“And? How do you feel?” Rossi presses.

Reid pauses for a long moment, before he finds himself croaking out, “ _Better_.” 

God knows Rossi can’t let himself get _too_ soft though, and so it’s with a ruffle of his hair that he rises to his feet, sitting on the other side of the table, and Reid can only see the other man’s knees from his curled up position on the beige leather.

He waits a long moment, and the second he sits up, Rossi is smirking at him, “it’s a good thing your dream gave you closure, I had to listen to you snore for an hour.”

“Studies show that you can’t snore and dream,” Spencer immediately quips back.

“I _hate_ you,” Rossi growls, but he’s still grinning like a Cheshire Cat. “Did you make that up?”

“ _Absolutely_ , I think I saw one incomplete study on it,” he retorts, “but thank you for confirming that I don’t snore.”

“Touché, Kid.” He finds himself sighing as the wheels hit the ground. “ _Touché_.”

It’s the _fourth_ time that Reid thinks, maybe God isn’t so cruel after all. 

The next time he feels that maybe God isn’t so cruel, is the same moment the his little world begins to ease itself back in rotation. He’s walking towards the library at Georgetown. He doesn’t realise he’s zoned out until he nearly knocks over the woman who’d run into him.

They both clumsily reach out for each other, giving themselves a once over before their eyes meet. It’s a mess of stuttered apologies, and if it were so surprising, they’d probably be laughing.

“Rose?” She blinks back at him through rounded lenses, clearly thrown off her rhythm as she looks at the familiar face before her. She seems to remember something, her eyes sweeping the ground.

Spencer sees it before she does, the library book that’s lying on the ground. He picks it up, holding it out to her. She stares at it, adjusting her glasses against the bridge of her nose,

“Were you coming back from the library?” He finds himself asking, but then he realises the bookmark, a small worn piece of stationary with dinosaurs on it is laying in the back cover, and he responds before she even gets a chance, “No, you’re done with that... are you going to the library?”

“Yeah,” She breathes, laughing slightly, “We never seem to have a normal meeting outside of the coffeehouse, do we?”

Spencer’s mouth moves before he can stop himself, “I don’t like normal, anyways.”

She grins at him, running her fingers over the spine of the book as she looks down— this is a side of Rose he’s not used to seeing, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a little confusing.

“Where were you headed, Darling?” She asks softly, looking back up at him as she moves her glasses like a headband, pushing the hair from her eyes. 

“The library— were you reading and walking?” 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, face turning a soft shade of pink, “That’s why I ran into you.” 

“Is that why...?” He gestures vaguely at the glasses and she reaches for them, pulling them down. 

“Oh, no. I’m nearsighted— and they help with my migraines,” he realises in that moment what she seems so off, but she shakes her head clearly recognising his epiphany before he speaks it. “I’m just regaining my bearings, I’ve been down for three days with this doozy. I only had a chapter or so left and I figured I’d read it on the way— I was just closing the book when I ran into you.” 

She lets out an embarrassed laugh, looking anywhere but him, “You wouldn’t happen to want to walk _with_ me, would you?” 

“I would love to,” he answers, “Maybe you could even give me a breakdown of your book?” 

Her eyes light up at that, and he’s _so_ glad he asked. 

He’s been following Rose up and down bookshelves for an hour and a half, and they’re finally passed the checkout counter. 

“Do you remember when you said that you wouldn’t mind being a fresh set of ears?” He asks, and he heels stop short, turning to look up at him. He takes this as a sign to continue, “Maeve’s parents invited me to a dinner— they want to tell me about her, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do it alone and I assumed JJ might go with me but I didn’t want her to look at me the way—“ 

“Spencer,” Rose grins, taking the book he’d been holding since she’d handed it to him, “Sweetheart, if you need me I’ll be there. Just tell me a time and a place.” 

“I can— can I pick you up tomorrow? At five thirty?” He suggests nervously, running his thumb over the corner of his book. 

“Yes, you can walk two doors over,” she teases, but there’s something in her eyes that tells him she just wants to ease his anxiety. “I’ll see you at five-thirty?” 

“Yeah— wait, where are you going?” 

“I have to stop by the history department!” She calls back, still facing him, “Don’t worry about me, darling.” 

“I work for the FBI,” he mumbles to himself, “and also my ex-girlfriend got murdered in front of me, so I can do what I want.” 

_Oh_ , he realizes suddenly, _I care about her._

This is the _fifth_ time, that Spencer realises that perhaps God isn’t so cruel. 

True to her words, he knocks on Rose’s apartment door at five thirty, and she opens it almost immediately. 

He glances behind her instinctually and realises that their apartments are incredibly similar. There’s books all along the walls, and their couches are similar, but hers is white and puffy— for lack of better word. 

He returns his eyes to Rose, just as she sends him a warm smile, reaching to the left for her keys before clipping them to her purse. 

“Hey,” She laughs, grin wider and a bit mischievous, “are we just going to stare or did you want to move out of the threshold at some point?” 

“Oh,” he blurts, “yeah. We should um— I wasn’t staring.” 

She hums in response, and just as he opens his mouth to try to flatter her (that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?) she speaks, “Darling, I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have to tell me I look nice, this is about you getting closure.” 

It’s at this comment that she turns to look at him, sending him a warm smile, “But for the record, you look nice yourself.” 

She’s Morgan, Spencer thinks, my best friend out of work is a female Morgan. 

“Oh, careful,” She replies casually, “You’re implying I _only_ wear leather jackets, and _yes_ , I can read your mind.” 

Spencer blinks dryly, turning to her at the bottom of the stairs. She bursts into a fit of giggles before murmuring, “You said it out loud, genius.” 

Spencer can only send her an abashed smile, and she just shakes her head sighing, as if saying ‘ _what am I gonna do with you?’._

  
  


After they arrive at the Donovan’s home, she and Spencer are just sitting in the drive, staring at the yellow cottage before them. It’s just like Maeve described it.

He hears Rose unbuckle he seat belt, and she turns to him, criss-crossing her legs underneath her, “Say everything you don’t want to say to them to me.”

“R-Right _now_?” He stutters.

“No, I was actually thinking tomorrow— _yes_ , Spencer, now,” her voice softens at the end. 

He nods hesitantly, undoing his seatbelt and mirroring her position, “I was in love with your daughter, but I never got to tell her when she was alive. I feel like it’s my fault because I couldn’t negotiate well enough. At the funeral I thought you were going to yell at me for being the reason she died. I watched the bullet go through her head and sometimes I still see it, even though it’s been over three months. I have an eidetic memory, so I can see the moment clearly in my head.”

Rose’s hand lands just under his chin and when he sees it he realises he’s not looking at her anymore, he’s panting and staring at his folded hands that won’t stop fidgeting.

“Hey,” She brings his full attention back to her, “I lost you for a second.”

“Don’t say _any_ of that?” He wheezes, licking his lips.

“I wouldn’t _suggest_ it, but you know Maeve better than _I_ do. Apples usually don’t fall to far from the tree, so I would just... pretend like it’s Maeve.” She says, sending him a reassuring smile. “You gonna be alright?”

Spencer nods, opening his door, “Yeah, let’s get this done.” 

They’re all sitting around the living room couches, there’s a photo album splayed across Rose’s lap, and Spencer watches her as she talks to the Donovan’s with ease.

“Maeve is beautiful,” she says, and Spencer notes the use of present tense— she says it as if Maeve is right there with him, “And so intelligent, and she seems so kind.”

Mary sniffs, smiling as she leans over to point at a picture of a younger Maeve with a kitten in the corner, “She used to volunteer everywhere. The animal shelters, soup kitchens, the library...”

Spencer’s she’s focus on the pictures of Maeve, and his heart aches just a little more.

And then he manages to ask the question that’s been on his tongue for weeks, “Did she like to dance?”

“Oh,” Joe sighs, as if lost in a memory, “Maeve _loved_ to dance. Why?”

“I’ve been having these reoccurring dreams about her, and she always asks me to dance. I guess I was just wondering more than anything.” He looks to Rose frantically, but she simply has a look of encouragement plastered across her face.

“You know,” Mary starts, “I don’t believe in the supernatural, but they say that if someone visits you in a dream, it’s their way of saying goodbye.”

And it’s with that, that the conversation begins to flow between the three of them, and rose just offers occasional smiles or hums of acknowledgement, letting them reminisce in what they’ve lost.

And when the end of the night comes, she offers to drive, saying she can see the exhaustion in his eyes. 

This is the _sixth_ time that Spencer can’t help but think, maybe God isn’t so cruel after all. 

“How was it?” Penelope breathes, rushing to his desk the second she sees him. “How did dinner go? We’re you prepared? Did they ask too many questions? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Pen.” He says softly, wordlessly clearing a spot on his desk to sit as Penelope takes his chair. “Really, it was fine. Rose came with me.”

Penelope blinks, “the really nice one from the coffee shop?”

Spencer confirms with a simple nod, and Penelope grins, “oh, I knew I liked her.”

Spencer chuckles, but his grin slowly diminishes, and he runs his hands over his face with a sigh.

“What? What’s with the face touching— Spencer, that is a sign of frustration if I have ever seen one!” Penelope rambles, words growing in volume before Spencer grabs her attention.

“I’m fine,” He breathes, “I’ve just, I’ve been having these dreams about Maeve, and last night they changed and I don’t know what to make of it.”

“What changed in them?” Morgan’s hovering over his shoulder now, “Besides, I thought you didn’t believe in dream analysis.”

“I don’t,” Spencer mumbles, pulling his legs up to cross beneath him, “But I do believe in the people who appear in your dreams.”

Penelope stares at him in silence, before slowly asking, “Did you have a dream about Rose?”

Spencer dodges her question as JJ calls his name, disappearing into the kitchenette.


	8. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy.”  
> \- sylvia plath, the bell jar.

He ignores Rose for a full month after they have dinner with Maeve’s parents, but she doesn’t seek him out, and he wonders how she just knows when he needs to be alone. 

He’s walking back from a rather late night at work when he sees her. She’s wiping down the the last few booths, heading towards a string of lights that she’s already begun hanging up around the shop when he walks in.

Much like the day of his first case back, she jumps at the sound, almost falling off the bar counter but managing to catch herself.

“ _Spencer_!” She gasps, braced against the counter she’d just been standing on, “Stop doing _that_!”

He’s almost certain that the second she regains her bearings, she’ll be asking him why he thought it was okay to disappear for a month. However, just as always, she doesn’t question him. She only looks at him and follows up by sending him a smile and a bemused shake of the head.

“I thought the cafe was supposed to be closed?” He wonders aloud.

“It closed a half hour ago, darling, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t work to be done.”

“You should lock the door when you close.” He stares at her for a long moment, and then adds, “I disappeared again.” 

“You _did_.” She states, but there’s no malice in her tone, “but you went through a lot and I’m sure that it all came back when you saw Maeve’s parents.”

Spencer nods, furrowing his brows as he remembers what he had wanted to say.

“I have two questions,” He says, and she comes out from behind the bar, looking at him expectantly. “I was wondering if you’d like to dance with me?”

Her eyes brows furrow, mouth opening to respond before he can explain himself, “Darling, you’re sweet, but I don’t want to be a rebound.”

“You’re _not_ ,” he soothes, continuing on with a sigh as she raises a brow. “You’re not. _Please_?”

She sighs, picking her phone up and off of the table, “Only if I can choose the song.”

She glances up, smiling when she catches him smiling victoriously at her. She slips out of her apron, folding it and placing it on the counter before walking over to him as the music fills her shop.

It’s a prelude, one that he recognises and it doesn’t take him long to realise it’s one of the Nocturne in E minor pieces— more likely than not its no. 72.

“You like Chopin?” Spencer asks, finding himself almost unaffected when she slips her arms over his shoulders, interlocking her fingers behind his neck.

“Yeah,” she murmurs back, “my best friend in high school was in the orchestra, she used to send me her practice pieces and I kind of grew an unexplained fondness for them.”

Spencer never seems to go a day without being pleasantly surprised by Rose. He opens his mouth to ask why she was at Georgetown, but she cuts him off with a teasing tut.

“It’s my turn to remind you that you had a second question,” she sighs softly, “but I need to ask you something first.”

He blinks at her, licking his lips before murmuring, “Yeah?”

“Why did you want to dance with me? This feels like a rebound, Spencer,” she breathes, and there’s such an uncharacteristic bit of sadness behind her eyes that it sends him through a loop.

“You know that dream? The one with me dancing with Maeve?” She nods, urging him to continue as they continue to to sway together, “the night after we were with Maeve’s parents, it started to change. Just little bits at a time. The first time you were sitting at a different table, just smiling encouragingly— but then it changed even more. You got closer, and then one night Maeve turned around and instead of asking me to dance with her, she introduced me to you and then told me to dance with you.”

Rose is just staring at him, and they’ve stopped swaying but they’re still pressed against one another.

“Last night, we did— and I just— I realised I couldn’t wait to touch the person that I liked again. See, I have this odd trend that follows me everywhere— whenever I like someone, there’s a stalker before I can go out with them,” he sighs, biting his bottom lip.

Rose seems to unfreeze, and for the first time she’s wordless. Spencer shakes his head, starting to pull away, but she moves her hands to his torso, murmuring out loud as he returns his gaze to her, “Hey. I’m not going anywhere, don’t disappear on me again.”

He nods, slowly settling his hands back on her waist as she returns her hands to his shoulders.

“When did you realise?” She asks softly.

“I... I told you, when I had that dream—“

“No,” She says, and there’s a nervousness that lurks in her tone, “When did you realise _I_ liked you?”

Her eyes are boring into his hazel ones, and pupils blown up and eyes twinkling with an innocence he hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh,” He says dumbly, “Um, a few months ago— but I didn’t realise what it meant until a couple nights ago. You called me turtle-dove, but the thing that tipped me off was that you told me about the first thing I ever said to you— about the PH of soil and coffee beans? No ones ever remembers the first thing I’ve said to them. Especially not when it’s a nervous ramble of facts. Penelope had a hay day when I told her about it.”

“Hey Spencer?” She asks, and he looks at her. “What was your other question.”

“Do you.... would you like to go out with me?” He queries softly, smiling when she nods.

“Yeah, I’d love to.”

Before he can begin to register what’s happening, he’s leaning in and her soft lips are on his, palms on either side of his face. When they pull apart, they just stare at one another neither fully processing what’s happened.

He’s about to launch himself onto a tangent about pathogens, but she decides to speak before he can, “ _Kiss me, and you will see how important I am_.”

Spencer categorises the poem immediately, and before he can stop himself he finds himself pondering out loud, “you know Sylvia Plath?”

She starts giggling, and Spencer becomes lost. “Spencer, I have a PHD in English and in Latin, this bakery is more of a hobby.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes, the puzzle pieces clicking at once, “That’s why you were at Georgetown.”

She nods, “Yeah.”

“You never told me that,” He murmurs softly, biting his bottom lip.

“There’s a _lot_ I haven’t told you.” 

Spencer glances at the coffee machine in the corner, and then he offers up, “We’re all alone in a closed coffee shop.”

“Well,” She says, straightening his tie, “I would say this is a perfect time and place for a first date.”

It’s for this reason that the team finds Penelope screeching like a bobcat on Monday, hugging Spencer and rambling about how precious it all is.

And it’s the _seventh_ time, that Spencer thinks, maybe God _isn’t_ so cruel after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to let me know what you guys think!

**Author's Note:**

> ok but if u leave kudos and comments i’ll love u forever


End file.
